Songbird
by Noondarkly
Summary: Eight months after his own burial, Michael tries to come to terms with his past choices and future alternatives. Alive but ill, he's torn between continuing a life of solitude and contacting Sara and his son.
1. Chapter 1

Perhaps you'll understand why I'm starting this story. It's mostly for myself and all of you, who were sad when the show ended, and most of all, when Michael died. I'm sorry but I can't get resigned to that. I'm not putting much effort into this fanfic, I'll just let my thoughts wander and dwell on the „what would have happened if..." scenario. I'll try to keep my characters in character and I'll try to write something enjoyable for all of us. I like drama and angst and my content is always M, regardless of story. (Maybe not the first chapter.) If you liked it, comment. Again, this is fanfiction, and not something I'll work on very much. I have a novel in progress but this will be a good relaxation for me, and also, will keep Michael alive in my thoughts. (That is how much I loved him. Go sue me.)

SONGBIRD

(Chapter 1)

The key turned slowly in the lock. As the door opened, the lazy afternoon sunbeams sneaked inside the motel room to fill the small space with a deep yellow sheen. The door closed as quietly as it opened, and the key turned in the lock once again.

As he placed the groceries on the bed, his hand automatically reached for the remote control and he switched the TV on for yet another evening of bad news, bad talk-shows and bad comedy. The sounds filled the silence on the room and kept him company in his self-imposed exile.

Pizza was comforting and so was beer, the tastes he had grown accustomed to over the past eight months. There was fruit and also a candy bar, microwave brownies and gum. After finishing an apple, he also popped some vitamins: he couldn't afford really healthy living, so he had to compensate with whatever he could. The background noise of a not very funny sitcom made him drowsy and as he settled comfortably against the pillow, he allowed his eyelids to fall occasionally, as if giving in to sleep.

In practice, Michael never fell asleep. He had learnt to stay vigilant twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. A master of disappearing, he was also aware of the fact that there would be people at his heels the moment his identity was revealed. Those people would be his family.

Laughter broke through the thin curtain of his consciousness and his eyes opened in terror. He sat up straight, his muscles tense and his whole body ready to defend himself, to flee and to hit anyone coming at him. He still had that from prison, customs he knew he would never shake. It took a few moments to realize there was no one in the room, there couldn't have been: it was a safe place, one that he changed every few days or so. Sometimes a week, depending on the neighbourhood. The motel he was currently staying at was a modest but decent establishment with just a few customers, mostly washed-out crooks and still hopeful couples. The walls were thin, but that was what he liked. He didn't mind the noises of people around him, in fact, he preferred hearing every sound anyone made in the hallway or in the adjacent rooms to a very quiet hotel. His senses had adjusted to all kinds of human sounds, he had learnt to be an expert on what was coming after a sigh, a scream, an object hitting against another, a flop on the bed, and irregular steps in the hallway. Keeping to himself and in the solitude of his respective motel or hotel rooms, he was exposed to very little physical contact with other people; whenever he was out shopping or taking the essential daily walk on fresh air, he wore sunglasses and a baseball cap. With the facial hair he had let grow over his chin and upper lip, he hoped he looked like a big loser no one should be interested in. That was exactly his aim.

Easing back on his bed, he flipped the channels until he found some music. He set it on low volume to not disturb his neighbours, and also to allow other noises to get through to him. He watched the TV screen for a while, not really interested in what music was playing.

At seven sharp, he took his books out of the small trunk he was travelling with. Taking a notepad out and a pen, he opened his French grammar and placed the dictionary in front of him. For an hour every Tuesdays, he had French; on Wednesdays, he studied Spanish, on Thursdays, economics. He had flyers and leaflets of free seminars and lectures in each respective area he hit, and he made sure to attend as many of them as he could. Laying low did not mean he was going to allow his time to be wasted. He made good use of it as much as he could, knowing that each minute was precious and each minute past was one minute down his self-inflicted sentence, his existence without Sara.

The sentence he was reading in the French grammar book disappeared from his eyes as his focus shifted and he found himself dreaming about Sara once again. He had no idea what she was doing, all he knew that she had moved to a small town in Montana with their son, now almost one, and that information came from just after Michael Jr was born. There was no way he could keep track of her doings, he didn't want to attract any kind of attention to himself. He also knew that as long as he didn't contact her, she was safe. Safe from the cops or any officials, safe from the FBI, safe from any questions anyone would want to ask, and most of all, safe from the pain that he would eventually inflict on her.

Michael forced himself to read on. Imitating the French accent, he read the passages aloud to himself, checking all the new words. He tried saying hello and asking for directions in French; he then formulated a wish to address an important official. It was going well. It made him feel alive and it kept him busy.

He heard laughter again, but this time, it was from just outside his door. He turned his head toward the sound to try and make out what it was exactly. A woman's laughter-peels rolled in the air, she may have been drunk or just happy. Then, it sounded like she was laughing, but through a blanket. There was a thud against his door, at which he froze on the bed, ready to jump up and act if needed. There was only silence next, he started to relax.

The pain came abruptly, a sharp, numbing pain that left him hunched over his books, the pen fallen from his hand, his thoughts completely muffled, just like the stranger woman's laughter. He felt dizzy and nauseated, there was blood throbbing in his head, louder and louder and louder, until it became bearable again and then slowly subsided. He couldn't kid himself any more, it was getting worse. He closed his eyes and inhaled a few times. The medication prescribed to him by some Indian doctor worked, but only in the beginning. Of course, his lifespan should have been a mere few months based on what they told him back then at the clinic. Compared to that, he was the king of the world.

Leaning back to rest, he thought of her and he thought of their son. He wondered where Linc was, whether he was taking care of Sara. They were a close-knit family and Michael was sure LJ was a great older brother to Michael Jr. In his thoughts, he even allowed Linc to pair up with Sara. Even if he managed to contact her, there wasn't much of a life waiting for them... Sometimes he questioned his right to just appear from out of the blue and remind her of all the horrible times they had been through. Prison life with all its horrors, the escape and the constant running, the dangers, the multiple assaults, the bodily and the emotional pain he had put her through. He was part of her past that she may want to forget completely; she had a son to take care of, a son who carried his genes alongside hers. That was enough to remind her of him. She did not need the actual Michael Scofield whose last words on tape were those of goodbye, and who was supposed to have died in an effort to help her escape. The shock of seeing him alive might be too much for her to handle, he knew that. He also suspected she could not forgive him for not contacting her earlier.

He knew all of that and more. Eight months was a long time to think and calculate, wonder and assume. Michael was a man of facts and figures, precision and certainty. He did not do well when it came to conjecturing; in his fantasies, everything was perfect, nothing was wrong whatsoever, everyone was happy and living in peace. And most of all, in freedom. But beyond his fantasies, there was the reality of his untreated illness that out of God's grace had allowed him to live a lot longer than the doctors predicted. Despite the fact that he was alive, there were fits and spasms and blackouts. Luckily, he always managed to keep them under control when outside his room, he kept pretending he was drunk or high, and people let him be. He looked like a vagrant and he tried to keep his shirts unwashed. Being smelly and acting like a tramp, he knew he would be fine.

He knew he had made the wrong choice back then. The worst choice ever. Assuming he had very little to live, he sacrificed himself to help her go free, literally and otherwise. Wanting to spare her the pain of seeing him die, he acted out his own death, after which he made sure to cover all his tracks and keep himself invisible. He knew that Linc and Alex would do everything in their power to find him if there was as much as a hint at his being alive. But back then he made a choice, that of severing all ties between him and his family, that of keeping them emotionally unharmed. The thought of self sacrifice had then seemed endlessly better than a man dying of brain cancer; he thought his son deserved a hero for a father and not a mummy crippled during his last weeks. He was not so sure about that now. With every passing minute doubt and longing emerged, the thought of Sara and that of his son he had never seen, never held in his arms, never heard speak or cry.

Music on TV was soothing his senses and he allowed his thoughts to rest, along his body. His eyelids fluttering in a constant effort to stay half open, he succumbed to a kind of sleep that lasts only for minutes, one that leaves the body exhausted but relieves the mind of some of its tension. Multiple times that, and he almost got enough sleep before dawn broke.

(tbc)


	2. Chapter 2

Here's chapter two. I know I must be sick in the head but the fact that I can write about Michael ALIVE makes me so damn happy. In my mind, he must stay alive, his personality is just too amazing to not be around us any more. Right?

Thank you, Reviewer no. 1, for your feedback. I hope you like this update.

Michael packed the next day and taking all of his belongings, moved to yet another motel. He had not realized it before, but subconsciously, he had been moving in on his own family, inching closer and closer to them, spiralling around them, the vortex of his existence. He knew the name of the small town their loved ones were living in, and that was perhaps a few hours' drive from his current abode.

With these thoughts in mind he stood at the counter of the friendly-looking motel in Wolf Point. The person sitting behind the counter was most definitely of Indian origin, his hair cut short and his clothes casual.

'Good day, sir. You wish to take a room, I suppose?' he said with a slow smile.

Michael instantly took to him. In his extensive experience of boarding in hotels and motels, he had encountered all the front desk people types that ever existed. He preferred the quiet, unassuming type, the type that asks no redundant questions and is not imposing but reassures with a subtle gesture or just a few words.

'Yes, please. How much will that be for three days?'

'Seventy-five dollars with breakfast.'

'That's alright, I can do without it', Michael said and took his wallet out. In it he always carried just the necessary amount of cash to keep him alive for a week. The rest he kept in a bank account he had never told anyone about, not even Linc or Sarah. His work as a structural engineer has provided him with a stable financial background, in fact, he was certain that after his demise, there would be enough money on that account to ensure that his family would live happily and comfortably for a very long time.

'It's the last free room, sir. The place is crowded with rodeo fans from all around the state and beyond', the man said with no small amount of pride in his voice. When he saw that Michael had no clue about what he was talking, he added: 'The annual Stampede, it starts tomorrow'.

'Great, now I know where I'll spend the day, then', Michael smiled and signed the registry. Morton Hicks was to be his name for three days.

'Here's your key, the room's on the first floor. In case you change your mind about breakfast, we serve eggs and bacon and a variety of fruit for just two dollars'.

'Thank you', Michael smiled at him and walked toward the stairs.

The room was larger than he expected. It opened to a spatious bathroom and on the other side, there was a balcony giving to the main street, as well as the Missouri river far on the left of the horizon. The streets seemed to be densely populated indeed. Michael did not expect such commotion and for a brief time he wondered whether it was a good idea to stay. Then again, the bigger the crowd, the bigger chances he had of disappearing, of staying below the radar.

Taking his shirt off, he decided to put something fresh on, but not before a good bath. He had a proper tub to use and he started the water with a sense of delicious abandon. It continued when he stripped himself of all his clothes and eased himself into the hot water. The large window was open and allowed the noise of the city to enter; he felt protected and safe, so he filled the tub almost full and after turning the water off, he closed his eyes.

From behind a place of darkness two faces broke through, pale and yet, reassuring. She was beautiful, sad and somewhat lost; he was adorable, merry and curious. They were both looking at him silently, their eyes fixed on him with gentle relentlessness. He had nowhere to hide but he looked at them with a steady eye, knowing that they could never recognize him in his disguise. Slowly, the vision changed and he experienced a sharp jolt of pain starting from his head and spreading all the way down his torso. It was as if the pain was aiming for his heart that started drumming wildly, frantically, and the pain he could not stop: it came in larger and larger waves, it grabbed his heart and froze his blood and left him breathless.

He opened his eyes with a jerk, heaving with his right hand above his heart, clutching at it even though he knew it was in vain. The faces of Sarah and Michael Jr were gone, but the pain he felt at having lost sight of them, even though they were a dream, was real. He tried to steady his breathing but his vision was blurring and the water seemed to be lapping at his skin, wanting to pull him under and engulf him. With an extraordinary effort to pulled the plug out and leaned over the rim of the bathtub, gasping for air.

They were physically so close to him. He was the closest to Scobey than ever, and the thought of their proximity was destroying him. His resolve to keep them from emotional harm's way was weakened by the selfishness of a dying man to see his loved ones before leaving this world. Tears welled up in his eyes when he realized how hateful he was being, how egotistic of him it would be to sacrifice their peace of mind for the sake of getting his own back. He would never do that to them, never.

After what seemed like an eternity, he dried himself and sat on the side of the large bed in his jeans. The physical strain and hunger was making him feel nauseated; opening the minibar, he took a peanut bar that he ate with two bites. There was also beer and he drank one, it was cold and tasted slightly of lemon. Looking at his watch, he saw that he still had a few hours before his Spanish lesson, so he put on an old, loose T-shirt and took his usual baseball cap and shades. It was July, hot and dry, he felt like being outside, mingle and feel the closeness of people.

The preparations for the rodeo event were well underway, a large area was being set up for the audience and fans and an even larger one separated for caterers. Thousands of people were already there even though nothing was really happening, except organizers and workers doing their job. The fans didn't mind, they could eat and talk and just drink in the atmosphere of it all. Michael walked into the thickest part of the crowd and spent some time listening in on conversations, smelling people, looking at faces and enjoying the company of so many harmless strangers. He had been only talking to front desk people in motels for months and his communication skills were very rusty; he suspected he would behave rather awkwardly if someone was to address him. But there was no need to talk to anyone in a crowd; one could be alone in a crowd, undisturbed and yet surrounded by the warmth of human presence.

Someone pushed into him and he tried to edge away without being noticed.

'I'm so sorry', a guy was saying, and Michael noticed then that his pants were stained with beer. 'Man, I'll get you a beer for the damage, what do you say?'

'That's fine, it'll dry in a minute in this heat', Michael mumbled and wanted to move on.

'We're not like that here, man, people may treat you like crap back in NY or Chicago but that sure ain't the case in Wolf Point', the stranger was insisting. 'I'd really like to get you a beer'.

'And I'd really like it if you didn't', Michael tried to smile and pull away from the strong grip of the guy who was tall, muscular, persistent.

Even in the midst of the commotion the air froze around them as people noticed the tension and looked. Michael cursed himself for not having taken that damned beer and wondered how to settle the situation without causing more ripples.

'Just let the man be, he obviously doesn't want a beer, so don't get him one', someone said.

Michael looked up from under his cap before he could check himself. He barely just glanced at the speaker but he would have known who it was already from the voice. Lifting his hand to his cap as if saying thank you, he nodded and turned as quickly as he could. Walking back toward his motel, he tried to look inconscpicuous and relaxed, but inside, he was shaking so hard he could hardly keep it together.

At the parking lot of the motel, he allowed himself the luxury to stop and breathe. Eight months of hard work, of hopes and fears and struggles were seemingly coming to a culminating point and Michael was not ready to become unravelled.

'Michael?'

He turned and smiled, still hoping to get away.

'You're mistaking me for someone else', he lifted his hand to his cap again and started walking away from the parking lot and the stranger, who was the personification of bliss and horror at the same time.

'I'm here alone, Michael. Linc, Sarah and the kid are only coming tomorrow'.

Michael walked on but the mention of the three people he loved most in the world caused his leg to lift just the tiniest fraction of a second slower.

'Michael, you can't just walk away, you can't do that to us again, you just can't!'

He was right. Michael knew Alex was right and he was ready to lift the burden off his own shoulders. After eight years of running and hiding from his fate, he knew he could not run from the memory of her, and the desire to see his son any more.

Turning slowly, he faced his old enemy, his pursuer, his friend. He didn't know what to say, how to say it. There was so much to say, and perhaps so little time to say it.

'How did you find me?' he asked, his voice raspy with emotions he could not hold back any longer.

(tbc)


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you guys for reading and liking this! I'm sorry for my long breaks and I'm even sorrier for these darn short chapters... wish I could write more at a time but somehow this length seems to become my writing habits. Anyway, here's part 3 – don't you just love Alex Mahone?

Chapter 3

The question meant surrender. The two men faced each other in silence, the noise of the preparations for the stampede drowning out everything else. Faint dizziness was coming over Michael, he felt he needed to sit, but there was nothing to sit on but the ground. Leaning on the nearest car, he swallowed on a very dry throat in the desperate effort to process as much as was possible under the circumstances.

'How did you find me, Alex? Do they know...?'

'No one knows but me', Alex Mahone hastily replied, taking a step closer to the younger man who looked considerably older in that moment.

'How?' Michael asked again, his eyes full of questions and fear. Fear of imminent change that he knew he could not escape any more.

Mahone averted his gaze, he seemed momentarily distracted by the noises of the thousands of people preparing for the loudest event of Wolf Point each year. Michael waited, even though anxiety was gnawing at him from inside. The uncertainty, all the questions he had been asking himself all that time were clamouring for attention and he wasn't sure how he would be able to deal with all that, let alone the answers.

'I'm FBI, remember?' Alex looked back at him, his eyes narrowed from the sunlight. 'I have means, I know people... and I think I know you well enough', Alex said, his voice becoming soft. 'You'd never give up on being with the ones you love unless...'

Michael held that blue gaze as long as he could, until his own fell under the silent reproachful desperate question he felt travel right into his soul. Of course Alex knew him, he had always been one of the few people who got Michael unconditionally. Through the pursuit, the cat and mouse game they used to play while their duties forced them to be opponents, Alex Mahone managed to get as close to Michael's innermost self as anyone ever could, including Sara. It wasn't that Michael allowed Alex to figure him out; he never really allowed anyone to decipher him. It only proved Mahone's dogged, ferocious persistence, a kind of obsession that eventually did lead him right onto Michael's tracks, and into his deepest secrets. He figured out the way Michael's mind worked. His being there was proof. It wasn't Sara or Linc who found him, but Alex.

'What? Did I say something funny?' Alex asked when Michael's lips stretched into a half smile.

Michael looked up at Alex, and realized that from the first moment, he had always done that. Looked up to the agent whom he could later accept as friend.

'I'm laughing at myself... I should've known better than to feel safe as long as you were around my family', Michael said, staring ahead into the dust. 'So what gave me away? The seasalt?'

Alex laughed.

'That was probably the first clue, yes... I was lucky the crime scene was still intact when I was cleared by the FBI and I was able to return. In fact', he smirked, and shook his head incredulously, 'I owe the FBI big time. Had they not conducted so many enquiries, had I gone to the crime scene earlier, water wouldn't have evaporated, the crystals had not been formed yet... I wouldn't have figured out I was looking at salt... mixed with water, the most common electrolyte there is.'

Like a schoolboy whose mischief has been found out, Michael grinned shamelessly.

'That was a cute trick, Michael... too clean, too easy, and yet, very ingenious. You needed a big explosion and by God, you got it.'

They both smiled a little. It was authentic and genuine, a kinship based on equality and mutual respect. The moment didn't last long; noises kept barging in from the distance, people were walking by, someone came and drove a car away. Dust was perturbed into spiralling clouds that trailed behind and filled Michael's lungs. He coughed discreetly and swallowed again. He was getting real thirsty, both for any kind of liquid and for knowledge, for answers, for clarity.

'The funeral was pathetic, you know? No one was allowed near the coffin under the pretext of you having been burnt beyond recognition.'

Michael winced at the grim thought. Sadness gripped his heart thinking what Sara and Linc must have gone through... During his exile, he'd pictured it many times before, he'd had to play it all over and over inside his head to be able to move on. Each time he thought about their pain, he felt just a little bit lighter in spirit, knowing that had it happened later, under worse circumstances, he just would have left more pain behind.

'That's when I added the two together and I knew something was up. Everyone else was... was too stricken with grief to focus on anything else...', Alex added softly, hanging his head, his hands in his pockets.

Michael emitted a deep sigh. It was as if his lungs had withheld the sorrow of ages, had shaped it into a hard little painful ball that started growing, feeding on the tears he'd been crying inwardly. Now that ball of pain had to be spat out, or else his insides would collapse from the pressure. He sighed again, took the baseball cap in his hand, twisted it around attentively, his focus fixed on the most minute details of everything around him.

'How much, Michael?'

He looked at his friend. Alex was standing there desolately, his hands hanging beside him helplessly, his pose exuding uncertainty and fear and sadness.

'Officially, I should have died two, three months ago', Michael simply said. 'I'm living on borrowed time here, Alex... literally... I'm taking each day as it comes, one at a time... nothing for granted, nothing planned, just getting up in the morning and making it through the day.'

Through the loudspeaker there came the voice of an announcer trying out his voice, checking the type of audience he could expect. There was cheering, clapping, an impromptu duo of a single amplified voice and hundreds of Rednecks eager for some entertainment. There was life, lots of it in that arena, numerous human beings exerting their will to exist the best way they knew how: through power and noise. The contrast between that raucus and the quiet, restrained ways of Michael obstinately holding on to his life was so striking that tears welled up in Alex's eyes. He let them silently roll down his cheek as he turned away slowly to stare into the imminent sunset.

'The Company saved you once... can't they save you once again?' he asked, knowing the reply before be posed the question.

'With my mother dead, the Company had disbanded... I lost track of their headquarter activities, to be honest, I was too focused on my own survival and disappearance to deal with them. Besides, my actions were paramount in bringing them down, I doubt they would want to save my life out of sheer gratitude', Michael smiled wanly. He gazed over at Alex, who stood in the dust of the carpark with his head hung. He felt sorry for Alex.

'This is why I had to disappear, Alex... you have to understand that now...', Michael pleaded, his voice starting to trail off.

An attack was coming, it was robbing him of his strength, his wish to stay conscious and aware, of his pride. With his weight leaning against the car completely, he slowly slid onto the ground. There was darkness and pain, nothing else. His last conscious thought was how he loathed becoming a powerless ragdoll at the mercy of place and time and whoever was around. He vaguely remembered that a friend was nearby, and he felt that friend's arms hold him tight as he was gently lowered into a lying position.

For a while, there was only darkness, sharps pain slashing his brain open at intervals. He heard the loud throbbing sound in his ears, there was nothing else but darkness, pain and the drumming sound.

'Michael...'

As he opened his eyes with an effort, he saw Sara's face lean over him with a smile. She was surrounded by an eerie light, she looked like an angel. There was a smaller angel beside her, his son. They were smiling at him in his vision, their presence made him endlessly happy, they filled with him quietude.

'Michael.'

He was being gently shaken. He opened his eyes for real this time, Alex was watching him. He realized he was lying beside a car in the dust of the carpark. There were one or two people standing by, looking at them, pointing, wondering. Someone was dialling a cellphone.

'No!' he sat up with an effort, supported by Alex. He scampered to his feet and forced a smile to his face. 'Heat and alcohol, those two together always got me', he shrugged and laughed a little, for show.

The by-standers nodded and shook their heads, walking away almost frustratedly. Michael wondered if he should have let them call an ambulance; they seemed so disappointed. Besides, he was really feeling very faint. Supported by Alex, he was walking beside the latter toward the entrance of the motel. He wondered why a sick person was always more pitied than someone under the influence. Was it not obvious that people who drowned themselves into alcohol were emotionally just as sick as the physically ill?

The receptionist looked up from the book he was reading when he noticed the two men walk in. If he was disappointed in the gentleman he had earlier signed in, he never showed; he presented the key with a nod and not hinting at any questions that might have formed in his mind at the sight of male company by the side of a seemingly inebriated Mr Hicks, he returned to his book.

Arriving to his floor, hearing the key turn in the lock of his room seemed to be heaven for Michael. He stumbled inside, took a few wobbly steps as Alex closed the door behind them and reaching the couch, he allowed his weakened body to flop onto it.

'You know that they are coming tomorrow, right?' Alex asked, filling a glass with tap water and extending it to Michael.

The latter looked at Alex, too weak to crumble inside.

'Who?' he posed the unnecessary question.

'Sara and your son'.

Yes, it had to happen. Once it started, it had to go as planned by fate. Michael knew there was no escaping any of it now.

'And Linc?' he asked.

Alex realized Michael was not going to drink the water, so he took the glass from his hand. Maybe it was a pretext to avert Michael's gaze, or so Michael thought. His consciousness returning, his mind clearing up, he started to notice things again. He knew Alex's body language and he knew Alex was stalling, but there could be no stalling to be done, there was simply no time for that. Next time an attack got him, he might be dead.

'Linc's all right, isn't he?' he asked again.

'Sure... he's fine. They're all fine, Michael.'

Alex looked at him and he tried to read Alex's gaze. Alex used to be hard to decipher, but Michael read him like a book by now. Alex wasn't keeping his guard up, he didn't want to keep any secrets. Michael realized that Alex just wasn't strong enough to tell him with words. Nonetheless, he knew. It was always inevitable, in fact, he had wished it with all his might. For the sake of all three of them.

'Are they happy?'

It was the most painful question he had ever had to ask. No possible answer could have qualmed the storms brewing inside him, there was no way he could ever have peace again. It wasn't jealousy he was sensing, no; he loved both Linc and Sarah too much to feel anything but joy at the thought of them sticking together... in every way possible. Or if it was jealousy, he was jealous of both of them for having been granted that kind of happiness... a happiness he would never have again.

When there was no reply, he broke the silence once more.

'Why did you come here, Alex? They don't need me any more... I did what I needed to keep my family safe, anything else I could ever give them is pain and suffering, so just... let me be. Let me go, Alex.'

He didn't realize it but the strength of his emotions was making his eyes water.

'They need you, Michael... they do need you. We all do', Alex said.

The sunlight was breaking through the curtains and shutters forming wild unfathomable patterns of sheen and dust on the carpet. The sound of thousands of people was intensifying outside in the street, the hubbub was beginning to overwhelm Michael.

'Even if I decided to let them know... how could I look into their eyes after what happened? Making them go through pain back then... it was horrible... I don't think I could do it again', Michael breathed.

'Let me handle that', Alex replied and exited the room.

(tbc)


End file.
